From Your Heart to Mine
by sugarplumdreams
Summary: A collection of stand-alone one-shots beginning Season 4 of Once Upon A Time, as prompted by my followers on Tumblr as well as little drabble-y headcanon things that pop into my head. Mostly fluff, a little angst, and the occasional smut/smuff (rated at the beginning of the fic).
1. A Thousand Times

A/N: Speculative fic for 4.02 "White Out," inspired by the promo after 4.01 "A Tale of Two Sisters." Worried Killian taking care of Emma after he and David save her from being trapped and nearly freezing to death in Elsa's ice cave.

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><p><em>You can make me wait forever<em>  
><em>Push me away and tell me never<em>  
><em>I don't mind, no I don't mind it<em>  
><em>I would come back a thousand times<em>

.

.

He's angry - really, _really_ angry - and she tries not to wince from where she's lying on the couch wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets as he goes about her parents' kitchen slamming drawers and cabinets in his quest for God knows what.

It's quiet in the apartment, her brother and her son safe at Regina's while her mother and father interrogate Elsa at the station (though she doubts anyone could actually _interrogate_ the Queen of a land called Arendelle, particularly when said Queen has ice magic). It doesn't matter though, she's thankful for the peace and a chance to rest — she hasn't had much of either for a long time.

Another drawer closes noisily and forces her attention back towards the kitchen and her huffy pirate. She imagines he has quite a few things he wants to say to her and her nose scrunches at the thought. She's never been one for words or speaking freely about her feelings and thoughts, but with him…God, he makes it so _easy_ and it is simultaneously wonderful and freeing, and utterly _terrifying_.

He finally comes up with a spoon, muttering quietly under his breath as he stalks across the room towards the fridge to pull a Jello cup from it. Her heart squeezes at the gesture - he's such an idiot, damn it - and guilt settles low in her stomach.

Killian moves to the counter, his back to her, and she watches him fumble with the lid a few times before he curses in frustration and slams the cup down next to the spoon. There's a light thud as he rests his forehead to the cabinet and she chews on her bottom lip while she regards the tense set of his shoulders and the grip of his hand on the edge of the counter.

She hesitates for a mere heartbeat, leaving her nest of blankets and pillows and standing on wobbly legs before crossing the room to slip her arms around his waist. She doesn't say anything, simply presses a tender kiss to his leather-clad shoulder. He sighs, relaxing into her touch, and she closes her eyes, arms tightening just a bit in a silent apology.

Killian shifts, turning to face her and pushing the Jello cup into her hand once she releases him. "Eat your bloody Jello," he mutters.

She humors him, knows he needs this — to take care of her, to know she's okay even if the doctor had given her a clean bill of health — and dutifully tugs the lid from the Jello cup. He hands her the spoon and she starts to eat. It's blueberry, and it's not her _favorite_, but she sees the anguish still in the depths of his stormy eyes, remembers the way he had held her and pressed his forehead against hers while he'd murmured soothing things at her once he and David had rescued her from Elsa's ice cave — _you're alright, love, I've got you, you're alright_ — and she smiles softly between bites.

His face is stoic, eyes hard and achingly blue, unwavering from her gaze. There's an endless sea of emotion there, one that tugs insistently at her heart and she looks away on another sigh. She finishes off her 'medicine' and sets the empty container on the counter. He doesn't even give her a chance to breathe, simply tugs her forward by the front of her shirt and crushes his mouth against hers.

It's all heat — frustrated, angry, concerned _heat_ — and _Jesus_, he's been holding out on her. It's never been this desperate, this unbridled and raw, and she is helpless to the moan that sounds in the back of her throat at the chastising little nip to her bottom lip. He soothes the spot with his tongue and when she opens her mouth just a bit, he changes the angle and deepens the kiss.

_Fuck_. You give the man an inch and he takes a mile.

Her hands slide up into his hair, gripping for purchase as she meets him head-on. She needs this too, this warmth only he can bring, his worry and care and the way he makes her feel so cherished and…special — worth saving, worth _loving_.

He turns, presses her into the counter, traps her there with the hard lines of his body, and the way her head was swimming earlier from cold and exhaustion is nowhere near how it's swimming now and _God_. She can't breathe without breathing him in, without the taste of him seeping into every vein, filling up every nook and cranny, and branding her his, chasing away any remaining chill left deep in her bones.

She pushes up onto her toes, wanting more, _needing_ more, but he abruptly pulls away and she feels the loss all the way down to her toes. She fights for air, breath puffing out against his lips when he rests his forehead to hers and bumps their noses together.

"Can't bloody leave you alone for five minutes," he mutters, voice rough and grumbling.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, fingers kneading at the tension at the base of his neck.

"I wish you had told me."

She pulls back, wants him to see the honesty and sincerity in her gaze. "Me too."

He reaches between them, thumb grazing across her bottom lip and from the way the arm around her waist pulls her just a little closer, she knows he's remembering how cold she'd been, how close he'd come to losing her. Her heart squeezes sweetly in her chest and the corners of her mouth tilt up as his eyes meet hers.

He was scared senseless, he doesn't say it, but he doesn't have to. She closes the distance between them, kissing him gently, reveling in the perfect fit of their lips and the way his nose brushes against her cheek.

She sighs as she pulls away, tilting her head up to kiss the tip of his nose and his brow. "Guess what?"

Killian's hand runs a path from neck to lower back and she shivers at the gesture, not from cold, but from a light, golden warmth humming along her skin.

"Hmm?" he asks.

"We have a quiet moment," she grins. "Want me to show you what Netflix is?"

He gives a soft laugh and nudges his nose against hers once more, pressing a firm kiss to her lips. "Aye."

_Fin_


	2. Love Has A Quiet Voice

A/N: Killian wonders what Emma's magic feels like.

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><p><strong>Love Has A Quiet Voice<strong>

It's late into the evening on one of their date nights — her head tipped to his shoulder as they sit side-by-side on her bed at Granny's, propped up against the headboard watching Captain America: The Winter Soldier on Netflix (she's found he's quite fond of Cap, feels some kinship with his character over his honorable nature and _good form, love_, and how he's from another time, needing to adjust to an unknown, modern world — it's the sweetest thing, honestly, to see Captain Hook fanboying over Captain America) while his fingertips trace lazy patterns against her palm — when he suddenly asks her.

"What's it like?"

She's half-dozing, half-struggling to keep her eyes open to watch Cap and The Winter Soldier go hand-to-hand in a really awesome fight sequence. "Hmm?" she hums in question, shifting to rest her chin against his shoulder and stare at his profile.

Killian glances at her, the corners of his mouth tipping up in an almost shy smile. "Your magic, darling. What does it feel like?"

She studies him for a moment, eyes searching his, not really sure where he's going with his question, but it's a good one and he's got her attention and has drawn her away from sleep. She pulls back slightly, turning to her other side to reach for the remote on the nightstand and pause the movie. She sits up, angles her body towards him for a better view of his face and pulls her knees up to her chest, arms wrapping around them while she contemplates him.

She's never thought about it, not really, it's been such an innate part of her that she just hasn't paid much attention. Her brow furrows as she tries to recall in her mind, all those moments she's conjured magic. It's not clear, she can't remember, or she can't focus on what happens inside of her.

Absentmindedly, she reaches for his hand, fingers smoothing over the many lines and ridges and callouses while her gaze follows — there's strength there, not just physical, but strength of character, strength of heart. She can all but feel it radiating from him with every _ba-dump_ of his pulse as her thumb strokes over his wrist. Emma stills for a moment, smile soft as she raises her eyes to him.

_That's it_. "It's like…a pulse — steady, _warm_."

She scoots a little closer, leaning over to rest her hand over his heart. She likes the feel of it beneath her fingers, likes the way it stutters just a bit when she touches him.

"It's starts here," she smiles, a little wider this time, and she watches his eyes fall to the dimples in her cheeks.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing over one and her stomach flips — she adores when he does that.

"It blooms from the chest and…moves outwards until my skin feels like it's humming or tingling."

"It's heady." It's not a question, he says it like he _knows_. "It's electric. Addictive."

Emma tilts her head at him, gives him a curious look. "Yeah, exactly. How-"

His quiet chuckle cuts her off and his answering smile is devastating, _everything. _It's the one he reserves just for her.

He glances away for a moment before meeting her eyes once more. The softness there, the tenderness on his face — it's too much, backing the breath up into her lungs and making her heart squeeze sweetly in her chest.

This time he reaches for _her_ hand, gently lacing their fingers together before he draws her hand towards him and kisses at her knuckles. There's a little spark there, a little jolt that zips up her arm from where his lips had made contact and she sighs internally.

"I know because that's how I feel every time you look at me," he murmurs.

Oh.

_Ohh, well_. There's a sudden weight pressing on her chest, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to keep her eyes dry. She feels heat creep up her neck and stain her cheeks as she swallows back the lump in her throat. He's so ridiculous, damn it.

"Ever time you smile or laugh. Every time we touch, every time we kiss." Their joined hands come up, his index finger stroking affectionately over her nose as he continues to grin at her. "It would seem, Swan, that _you're_ my own sort of magic."

Damn it. _Damn. It._

She hides her face against her knees, unable to deal with his words, with _him_, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or hell, _both_. He overwhelms her, consumes her, _scares her_, but in the _best_ possible way.

She sighs heavily and peeks up at him, biting on her lip to keep from smiling back (but by his amused, adoring expression, she knows she's doing a piss-poor job).She's not sure if she'll ever get used to this — the way he looks at her, the way he just…_feels_ about her — but she hopes she does because it really works for her.

"Too much?" he wonders, nose scrunching at her in adorable fashion.

_God_, does it work for her.

The silence blankets around them for a mere heartbeat before she's shifting, leading with her heart (which is hammering in her chest now, thank you), moving across the little space between them, crawling over him and straddling his hips. His eyes go wide in surprise but his arms automatically come around her the second she touches her forehead to his. She shakes her head to answer his question then slides her hands into his hair, holding him to her, keeping him close.

"Can I tell you a secret?" It's terrifying and it's vulnerable, but she wants him to know, _needs_ him to know.

Killian's hand trails up her spine, fingers twisting in the ends of her hair.

"I do love a good intrigue," he tells her.

She smiles, rubs her nose against his. "You're better than my magic."

He pulls back to look at her, brow furrowed in question, and her hand reaches between them so she can thumb at the corner of his mouth, at the scar on his cheek.

"You anchor me," she says simply, the rest of the words getting stuck in her throat.

She knows she doesn't need them though, he reads her like an open book, and judging by the way he suddenly crushes his mouth to hers, the message came across clear enough.

_You strengthen me, you make me better_.

It starts in her chest, as she told him it does, only it's stronger, it's _more_. It's freeing and steadying at the same time. It's warm and light, vibrant and true, and more exhilarating than even the strongest force she'd ever conjured. Her skin hums everywhere they touch, heats and sparks until she is breathless and dizzy and every thought in her mind and every beat of her heart is _him_.

He groans when her tongue slides along the seam of his lips and when he opens his mouth so she can dip inside to taste, he opens his heart as well. She can _feel_ it, feel the surrender and the snap of connection between them — heart and soul, soul and heart — and everything goes blindingly white behind her closed eyelids.

It's impossible, it has to be, but it's like she can feel it seeping from her and into him and from him and into her, coursing through through their veins, lighting them up from the inside, more powerful than her magic.

Her heart, ever the traitor, whispers: _perhaps the most powerful magic of all_.

Killian grins against her lips, says her name once, soft as a prayer and she giggles quietly, pressing her mouth to his in gentle little pecks — once, twice, three times.

Perhaps, indeed.

_Fin_


	3. Life Can Be So Much More With You

A/N: You should all know me well enough by now to know that I can never resist writing about the spoilers, so here, enjoy some CS sexy times because our flawless Queen Jennifer Morrison hopes Hook and Emma get some too ;)) P.S. Genelle, this is for you because you prompted me with something related but not quite this, after I had already started - hope this tides you over XO (Rated S for Sexy Times and Spoilers)

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><p><strong>Life Can Be So Much More With You<strong>

It's been a long time coming. Not just _this_, but _them_, and as she feels his hand slide up her arm, fingers eventually tangling together while he presses her hand into the mattress, and his forehead touches hers in a sweet gesture, and his breath puffs out warm and soft against her lips as he says _Swan_, and his hips rock gently against hers - achingly slow, tirelessly savoring - she can feel her heart swell in her chest.

It's almost too much. It's almost not nearly enough.

"_Killian_," she murmurs, free hand anchoring in his hair, just at the base of his neck, back arching off the bed in a desperate attempt to get closer to him.

He has to move, _God_, he has to move. She can't stand it, this unhurried, lazy pace. It's too vulnerable, too intimate. But she can start to feel that flutter in her stomach, that wild anticipation just before the fall and it's so overwhelming she chokes on a sob.

His lips find hers and she thinks he asks her to _let go, love_, but she can't be sure. Her head is swimming, too full of him and his sweet, sweet smiles, his quiet laughter, his gentle caresses (so careful, so cherishing), his soft moans and words of endearments (_bloody beautiful, Swan, so beautiful_) - really, he's asked so little of her, and _this_, this surrender should be nothing.

(It is _everything_. She knows it. _He_ knows it.)

She swallows thickly, still trying to fight off the inevitable, still trying to maintain her control and her walls, thinking only of her self-preservation. She's trembling, embarrassingly so, and she whimpers (actually fucking whimpers) as she shakes her head.

She can't. Lord help her, she _can't_.

He leans forward then, lips firm yet gentle against hers - once, twice, three times - and gives a particularly vigorous roll of his hips, then she's gasping for breath, everything snapping tight inside of her, back bowing off the bed as she shoots out into a starlit oblivion more beautiful than anything she's ever seen. Her vision goes white behind her eyelids, blood roaring in her ears, heart pounding viciously to a rhythm that sounds strangely (wonderfully) like his name.

Emma doesn't know when he follows, only knows that he _does_ (as always), and it's perfect and real and _right_. When she comes to, she revels in the solid weight of him above her, in his whispered, incoherent words between little pecks of his lips against her mouth.

Jesus. _Jesus_.

"Bloody hell," he concurs.

It takes him a minute to catch his breath and she can't say she minds, hands trailing up down and his back, fingertips tracing and memorizing muscles and lines and scars - she wonders about those, but she doesn't ask (not yet).

The silence is lovely, comfortable even, and it's silly, but she keeps waiting for the regret to creep in, for her walls to snap back up, though neither of those things occur. The truth of that is utterly terrifying, yet oddly unsurprising.

He rolls them over after a moment, says something about _crushing you, darling_ (such a gentleman, her pirate), and settles his arms around her as she sprawls out and tangles her legs with his.

She looks at him, eyes so soft and blue, hair mussed from her fingers, smug smile curving up his lips and making the dimples in his cheeks wink, and she snorts, rolling her eyes as she smiles in response.

He reaches up, toying with a lock of her hair, curling it around and around his finger and she grins - wide and carefree - sighing contentedly as she continues to study him.

"What do you think, love? One time thing?"

She contemplates that, nose scrunching at him while she mulls it over. When her answer takes longer than he likes, he digs his fingers into her sides and makes her laugh and squirm against him.

"_No,_ okay?" she giggles, swatting his hands away. "Definitely _not_ a one time thing." She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, nips lightly at his bottom lip. "Ever."

"Good," he replies, tilting his head towards her to chase after her mouth and brush another kiss there before placing one against her nose.

(Her chest tightens sweetly, which she dutifully ignores - too much, not nearly enough.)

It's quiet once more as he watches her, eyes flitting across her face. "Do you want to go to dinner?" he wonders.

She's not sure why, but it makes her blush, makes the heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks so they burn. "_Seriously?_"

"Why not?" His smile is slow and lazy, on the verge of sleepy. He looks adorably like a puppy and she can feel another piece of her heart shift into his grasp.

"_Now_ you want to go on a date?"

She thinks they're a little past that stage, but then again, they've always been unconventional.

Killian strokes his thumb over the dent in her chin, then grazes it up along the line of her jaw. "Let me woo you, Swan. Flowers, candlelight, my dashing good looks-"

He wiggles his eyebrows at her and she's helpless to the laugh that escapes her mouth as well as the little flip in her stomach because _woo?_ Seriously? (He's so damn cute.)

"You're ridiculous."

His expression softens, like it's the best compliment she could have given him (though judging by the way he thumbs at the corner of her mouth, she has a feeling it has more to do with the fact that he could make her smile so big).

"Come to dinner with me," he asks her again - voice quiet, eyes hopeful.

Really, he asks so little of her.

(_Ugh._)

"'Kay," she answers, and she tries not to think about the way his eyes light up before she kisses him again, tries not to think about how completely she's falling for him.

(And how very, very okay she is with that.)

_Fin_


	4. I Will Be Right Here (1 of 2)

A/N: Post 4.02 "White Out" because I am so in love with Killian and Emma.

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><p><strong>I Will Be Right Here (12)**

She remembers the fear in his voice, the desperation, had clung onto it as she fought against slipping out of consciousness. She knew he would come, and when his arms had finally wrapped around her — chin resting against her shoulder, heart hammering against her own —and when he'd lifted her into the safety of his embrace, when she'd pressed her forehead to his cheek tiredly and he'd sighed softly and simply held her tighter, she knew he always would (persistent idiot).

He'd murmured soothingly at her, incoherent words against her skin while he carried her home (if she's going to be truthful, she was home the minute she was back in his arms), and had refused to release her until they made it to the apartment.

He sits at her side now, blue eyes watchful and piercing while she gets fussed over, almost like he's afraid she'll slip away again, and it makes her heart ache.

(It had been touch and go there for a second, and the shudder that courses through her as she remembers how very close she had come to dying is deep in her bones.)

She can feel his worry radiating off of him in waves while he holds her hand and tries to rub the warmth back into them. She laces their fingers together — needing to reassure, needing the contact as desperately as he seems to.

His fingers are solid between hers, _steady_, and it's not just heat that seeps into her, chasing away the cold, it's _strength_. He makes her stronger, he makes her better, and she thinks she finally understands — she doesn't have to be alone anymore, doesn't have to shoulder the full weight of being the Savior, doesn't have to take care of herself, _by herself_.

And she leans on him, revels in the way his hand smoothes back and forth across her back before he wraps his arm around her, making them a unit, making them a _team_.

She's not sure how long they stay that way, hell, she doesn't _care_, she doesn't even care who _sees_. She just sighs contentedly, snuggling closer, burying her face in his neck and breathing him in — sea and spice and _Killian_ — while he rests his lips against the top of her head.

It's safe here, comforting, precious and _everything _(and she'd very gladly stay here forever if she could).

Later, when her father talks to Elsa about how their family always finds people and never gives up, she doesn't have to look at Killian to know he's looking at her (in that way that backs the breath up into her lungs and makes her heart squeeze, in that way that scares her and simultaneously grounds her, in that way that makes her feel like maybe, just maybe she hangs the sun and moon and stars), and she doesn't have to look at him to know that he feels the truth of those words in the deepest part of his heart, just as she does.

_Fin_


	5. I Will Be Right Here (2 of 2)

A/N: Post 4.02 "White Out" because I am weak and Killian and Emma own my soul.

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><p><strong>I Will Be Right Here (22)**

She floats into consciousness gently, stirred by the rocking of her body cradled once more in his arms as he carries her up the stairs to the loft. Her face is pressed into his neck again — not that she's complaining, there's still a chill left all the way in her bones and he's so damn _warm _it's such a blessing — and she can't resist the urge to nuzzle against him.

"What're you doing?" she murmurs, eyes drifting close.

"You're for bed, love," he replies simply.

She wants to argue because really, she's _fine_ now, but she can't. She's not strong enough to protest against the insistent way he wants to care for her — her exhaustion weighs heavier than the mounds of blankets wrapped around her. So she let's him cart her upstairs, gives him this moment because she knows he needs it (_you okay?)_, and thinks of another time and place where he'd essentially done the same thing. Her lips curve against his skin.

"What are you smiling about?" he wonders.

_I've carried rum barrels heavier than you_.

"You," she sighs.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

He sets her down on the edge of the bed and she sits patiently while he proceeds to tug down the comforter so she can crawl under it. She slides in awkwardly, blankets and all, and watches him while he sets the quilt tight around her — handsome, gentle, caring man.

"What did I do?" he asks her.

She still sees the traces of worry around his eyes, how it tugs down on the edges of his mouth. It twists up her insides, makes her remember her fear and panic and the tiny sliver of hopelessness she felt while the warmth seeped out of her.

She frees her hand from the confines of the blankets and reaches out for him, palm resting against his face, thumb stroking over the scar on his cheek in a rare affectionate gesture. He's as steady as he was then, back in time (perhaps even more so since he actually _knows_ her now — more devoted, more protective).

"You came back for me." She says quietly.

There's a flash in his eyes at her words, an endless sea of emotions that squeezes at her heart before those eyes go soft. His hand closes around her wrist, grips firmly while he turns his head and presses a kiss to her palm.

"Did you doubt I would?" His expression softens too, and he smiles teasingly at her.

Emma simply shakes her head because _not for an instant _did she doubt that — what she doubted was whether or not she'd be alive to see it.

She turns her palm and slides her fingers through his again, sighs as warmth blooms from her chest and eases the tension in her shoulders. He does that for her — soothes her, strengthens her — with nothing more than such a slight bit of contact.

She can still hear the mirrored panic in his voice, the devastation and desperation as he'd spoken through the walkie-talkie echoing around in her head. She can still recall the pure and utter _relief_ — his _and _hers — when he'd shouted her name before she'd crawled through the hole in the ice wall and returned to the welcomed familiarity of his embrace. His voice had trembled when he'd asked if she was okay and she'd squeezed him so tight while she'd nodded in response.

"I've just never had a chance to say thank you before," she replies with a soft curving of lips.

He leans over, touches his forehead against hers and bumps their noses together. He hardly ever initiates these, has always waited for her to do so — touches and kisses — but she supposes near-death tends to make one a little less reserved.

"Family motto," he chuckles.

She swallows thickly when a large lump gets stuck in her throat. Somehow, somewhere along the way that's exactly what he had become — a part of her family, an _important _piece of the whole. She releases a shaky breath as she brings their joined hands up to his face so the side of her index finger can rub at the scruff along his jaw.

"This is what it's going to be like, Killian. It's not just monsters, it's danger. It's life-threatening, it's being separ-"

The hum in his throat interrupts her. "Still trying to scare me off, are you?" He pulls back slightly to look at her and she doesn't miss the stubborn determination in his gaze.

The corners of her mouth tilt up just a bit because _that's _exactly what scares her. "If it's not me, it's going to be _you_, and I just…I need you to know that. I need you to _understand_ that. I need that to be clear before we keep doing this...whatever _this_ is and before…" The words abruptly get stuck.

_Before they get in too deep. _(They're already in too deep.)_ Before she falls in love with him. _(She's already halfway there.)

He sighs, tightens his fingers against hers while his eyes hold hers steadily — they're so clear, so blue — and her heart skips one solid beat in her chest.

"I suppose I'll just have to remember to bring that champagne for those future dates then."

She searches his gaze, his face, and finds no flicker of doubt or regret (in fact, finds everything _but_ those). He doesn't say them, though he doesn't have to, the the words he means are clear enough in the space between them: _I'm in this for the long haul_ — _against all odds, against danger, against monsters, against whatever may come._

Tears suddenly pool behind her eyes because honestly, he's such an idiot and she has no idea what the hell she did in her life to deserve him and if things had gone a different way...she exhales heavily, unable to finish the thought. She has to blink back those tears because she's not going to do this right now.

(She's fine. He's here. She's _fine _now, and she's _here_ too.)

Instead she looks up at him and her free hand slinks out and closes around the charms on his necklace so she can tug him forward and press her mouth against his — a promise sealed with a kiss. It takes him a minute, takes gentle coaxing and the insistent nudge of her lips, but finally he relaxes, groans in the back of his throat and meets her head-on, the frustration and anguish from earlier that he had no doubt been keeping in, spilling out and into her. It's overwhelming, but she shares the burden with him, helps heal it the way he had done with her.

Their linked hands release, anchoring in each other's hair as heat - _his _warmth and _his _light - sparks along her skin and seeps deep into her bones and chases away the rest of the chill, the rest of the _what if's_.

A little while later, he asks her if she's still cold, and even though she shakes her head, he still shrugs his coat off and places it atop her makeshift cocoon. She falls asleep with him sitting by her hip and her hand tucked in his — safe and _home_.

_Fin_


End file.
